musings

it seems like people go between an insatiable need to be connected, known by people and the world around them to a desire to push people away, let go and forgo any contact because the effort to deal with humans becomes so hard. people can never look at you unbiased, or know what elements of the world have made you who you are, or influenced the way you acted at 4:00 last thursday night. so why should we try when we will always be judged, never be able to enter a certain social group and face the very real possibility that the people who become ours will be lost by us. maybe they will push us away, forget us in the same way we want to kick everyone to the curb sometimes too. why make these connections in our life when people will disappoint us... we need to in the end so we don't turn into psychopaths from a faulty frontal lobe or end our self propagating depression. we can never be independent creatures when our whole mental and emotional well being relies on the connections we make. we quiver in the middle between the two, sometimes tending to ignore people or loosing contact when we favor the isolationist side, but then bemoaning our lost contact when we begin to crave what we had. maybe america was onto something when in was isolationist in the what 20s? with the Chinese exclusion act, uninvolved foreign policy and immigration quotas... i mean look at the mess we are in now- in everyones bloody business, with the entire world hating us- anyways i digress. the main point is sometimes humans are fucking hard to deal with and you can't change peoples facets if character.

not sure

crystals hung from the chandelier and cast drops of light across the room like small drops of rain refracted by a million mirrors. the wooden floor was glossy but worn from the countless feet that danced across it and portraits of no-name well-to-do governors and political scoundrels covered certain expanses of walls. daisy could see all the people, fake, busying themselves with the social connections and vendettas that must all be served in a world where your facade is everything. in a world where the poison seeping out of peoples words is masked by the clinking of champagne glasses and wealth. she could see her life before her with surprising ease.

i am Gwen of course. i recently came to new york in the summer to spend time with dying grandmother. my grandmother happened to be an insufferable suffragette in her time, something not popular in a family of a historically wealthy background. but money forgives all sins doesn't it? recently she has enjoyed scandalizing my father with her incessant talk of the rights of all creatures known earth, recently her cause has been burrowing owl habitats destroyed by henry fords newer factories and racial discriminations against asians.

after my the trip form st. paul to central station a car nora (grandma) sent took me through the smoke filled streets from the the less fortunate parts of the city to what was to become the symbolic epicenter of my coming out in the wealthy new york life; the votier hotel. it is there where i sit waiting for nora to meet me for coffee before we retire to strategize my time here amongst the frogs as my grandmother likes to call the people society insists we be ourselves...

"Gwendolyn" is rudely shouted across the entrance, and i turn to see nora.

why the fuck is every blog i get to when i click next blog one thats Russian or Ukrainian or some shit

old ned lays his bed

it is said

that old ned lays his bed at every crossroad

and there he waits

every street and country road 

while passerby ponder by

he shimmers in the corner of our eye

but roads wind through more than land

more than endless sun washed streets

and meandering mountain treks

they make their way through our life

where the seconds and choices of day to day divert

at lay crossroads at our feet

so there ned shimmers

and offers his eternal voice

that whispers in the vast expanses of our mind

and tells us to mind the time and his offer so designed

his voice echoing within the cavernous space

for those who hear him at these crossroads- wait

paths are often entwined with vine

obstructing the justice of our sight

but there is light in those who hope

while death for those who cannot cope

it is said

 that old ned lays his bed

with with those who cannot see

past the deepness of their despair

and those who delight within his blight

at crossroads here and there